At 73, my dad spent his whole retirement fund on a $35,000 Harley instead of helping me pay off my loans. He calls it his “last great adventure.”
When he first rolled it into the driveway, the machine gleamed like a polished jewel. Chrome shone in the late afternoon sunlight, the leather seat looked untouched, and the smell of gasoline lingered in the air. Dad stood beside it with a boyish grin stretched across his weathered face, the same grin I remembered from childhood when he used to surprise me with ice cream after school.
